


The One Where Scully Gets Sick on the Road

by ElizabethJaneway1158



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Nurturing Mulder, bed sharing, cuteness and hilarity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-30
Updated: 2018-07-30
Packaged: 2019-06-18 20:16:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15493827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElizabethJaneway1158/pseuds/ElizabethJaneway1158
Summary: Scully begins to show flu-like symptoms while out on background checks. #worriedMulder kicks in to overdrive. Fluff ensues.Season six. Kersh is the boss. Background checks are life.





	The One Where Scully Gets Sick on the Road

**Author's Note:**

> Not Beta’d. Thrown together somewhat. Inspired by my own bloody misery. Wish I had a Fox Mulder to take care of my gross ass.

All day. You’ve been sneezing and coughing all day. Allergies? No, it’s the middle of winter. That and you don’t have any allergies.  
Mulder has been fluttering around you all damn day. At some point after noon, he began to produce tissues for you at every sniffle.  
Too much. Hovering. Mothering. You’re the damn medical doctor. Shouldn’t you be trusted with your own care?  
Now you’re on the road. Finally. That last field office was absolutely freezing. Heat turned all the way up, you’re praying that you can get some sleep on the long journey home.  
Feeling those eyes burning into the side of your head, you grimace in irritation. Ruffling your feathers for the big debate: Is Dana Scully Getting Sick?  
“Sc—“  
“Mulder, no. Quit it. I’m fine. You’ve been asking me all day. It’s just a runny nose. Drive the damn car,” your voice is beginning to take on that nasal timber that only unwanted phlegm can bring.  
It’s a lie. You’re both aware. Your nose was running like a river this morning and now it, and the un-holy amount of drainage, has frozen. Dangling precariously between your sinus and throat.  
Scratchy. Sore. Swollen. Your eyes radiate heat. And with every pulse of the accelerator, your stomach lurches uncomfortably in concert.  
“Scully. You have been all over the place today. You’re coughing, sneezing, not to mention you haven’t taken off your coat once today. And now, you’re practically green,” you shoot him a glare, “It-It’s a nice shade, really your color, don’t get me wrong. But, you seriously need—,”  
And as if the Lord himself had tickled your nose, a sharp barking sneeze/cough chokes you. Nearly sealing your airway completely. Tears sting at your gritty eyes and you hear him mumble.  
“Okay. That’s it.”  
The Taurus skids across the freeway into the exit lane. You groan in immense displeasure.  
“Sorry. That sign back there said there’s a hotel somewhere around here. I’ve got my credit card. We’re staying.” He waits for your rebuttal. He’s shocked, and very concerned, when there isn’t one.  
“Sure. Sounds like a plan,” the congested sigh sounds pathetic. Even to you. Jesus Christ. His hand has reached across the console and is pressed against your sizzling cheek and forehead. Just as you’ve done to him countless times.  
“Shit. You’re on fire.” You can’t help but lean in agains the cool feel of his calloused palm. Like a cat seeking some much needed attention from it’s owner.  
“I’m going to stop at this little gas station. See if they have any medication.”  
“Mm. No. I’ve got my bag.” The infamous bag. Full of supplies. Brought mainly for him. Okay. It’s always for him.  
The throbbing in your neck and shoulders seems to increase ten-fold. You haven’t felt this shitty in a long while.  
Seemingly declining by the minute; his deep voice scarcely penetrates the haze.  
“Scully. C’mon. Stay with me here just a bit longer and then we’ll get you into bed. What are your symptoms?” It’s too much. He’s too much. Your chest tightens with that familiar feeling; for once today, it’s not the mucus and inflammation.  
His steadfast willingness to care for you. Your spooky savior. His genuine attempt to extrapolate the little medical knowledge you have bestowed upon him.  
“It’s probably the flu, Mulder. Matty started showing symptoms at Mom’s last weekend. I should’ve known to stay home.” The fleeting thought of every object and person you must’ve touched in the last 48 hours gives you a pang of guilt. You know exactly what to expect. You wouldn’t wish it on your worst enemy. Wait. Oh, sh—  
“Mulder.”  
“What? What’s wrong?”  
“You’re probably going to get sick too,” the tears come out of nowhere. One lonely drop escapes over your lashes. Fat and piping hot. Streaking down your burning cheek.  
“Eh. Nothing I can’t handle. I know, I know. ‘Yeah, right Mulder’. I’m generally a big baby when it comes to—Oh, Scully…”  
Damn it. Caught before you could swipe away the evidence. A big clumsy finger catches the moisture and gently checks your forehead again. What for, you’re not sure. You don’t care. Just overjoyed to have the contact.  
“Don’t you worry. I’ll be fine. With the exception of being experimented on by members of a government conspiracy, the Mulders are quite resilient.”  
His quirky lop-sided smile as he absently tucks your hair behind your ear brings more fever-induced—that’s what you’re attributing it to—affection to the fore. A tickling cough suddenly turns vicious; you both wince at the snorting gag heralding the end of the fit.  
“Jesus,” he swings smoothly into the parking lot. “Alright, we’re here. I’m going to go check in and leave the car running. I’ll get us settled. You just stay warm.” Then, he does the sweetest thing. You can only hum in response when the thick soft heat of his Armani scarf is tucked around you.  
It’s wonderful; you imagine—because actually smelling it is out of the question—his woodsy aftershave mixed with that natural musk and it lulls you into a light doze. Before you know it, the brisk evening air is assaulting your face and lungs.  
“Sorry it’s not the Hilton. Twin Rivers Motel is the best I can I can offer,” he’s whispering delicately in your ear and guiding you to the door. “I heard they have a small hot tub out back. Carl informed me that it hasn’t failed him yet this season.” A small chuckle is shared between the both of you.  
By the grace of God, you make it inside. One room. Two beds. Two sets of luggage. Oh, no.  
“Muld—“  
“I know. It’s on my card. The FBI can pucker up. They only had one room. There are two beds. I figured, this way I’ll get to keep a closer eye on you.”  
“Mmhm. And when I’m up coughing and hacking most of the night, you will be too. Mulder, one of us has to drive to back to DC tomorrow.”  
“Scully. Just sit down,” there’s just enough energy for one more arch of your eyebrow. “Please,” he adds.  
Your coat and winter gear are carefully removed, the chill from the fever sets in as your body attempts to make sense of the temperature change. The air is musty and irritates your ailing respiratory system.  
“I’ve brought the bag. You pick your poison and I’ll see what the entree is on the room service menu,” he winks and the loving eye roll you reply with is second nature. He’s at your feet, removing your sensible G-Woman boots.  
Every item of clothing he removes from you is folded neatly and laid across the back of the chair beside the bed with care. The fact that he is aware of your usual routine doesn’t surprise you. It is, however, extremely touching. Borderline frightening. The domesticity of it all.  
“I think that’s everything. If I remove anything else, my motives could be put into question,” he sits back on his haunches and studies you. The chills have really started now. Your entire muscular system contracting intensely. He shakes out the questionably clean comforter of the unused bed, tucking it ever so gently around you.  
Running on empty, all you can muster is to simply stare at him. He must read something in your expression. Blushing slightly, your adorable puppy—partner—lowers his gaze to your stockinged feet.  
“I’ll get you a glass of water. You find those meds.” With yet another pass over your forehead and cheek, he’s gone. Off on his search for your glass of water.  
Pills located, water in hand. The swelling of your throat makes it damn near impossible to swallow. He sighs when you groan in pain.  
“God, this stuff just comes out swinging. Are you sure we don’t need to...” his voice trails off when you shake your head ‘no’.  
You regretted it the moment it happened; dizzying streaks smear violently across your vision.  
“Scully? What is it? I—“  
“N-thing M’der.”  
He’s not buying it. The multiple attempts of schooling your expressions, a useless waste of valuable energy. He waits you out, needing his answer.  
“M’ d’zzy.”  
“How bad?”  
You can’t answer. The faint urge to vomit causing you great concern. There’s no way you can handle a this and that whole mess. There’s no way Mulder can handle that mess.  
“N’t good.”  
“Okay, then are you alright with me getting you dressed for bed?”  
Sweet Mary full of Grace. He wants you to move? The simple activity seems damn near impossible at this point. It hurts too much to speak yet, there will be no more nodding gestures. Period.  
Gripping the giant hand resting dangerously high on your thigh, you mouth the word ‘yes’.  
“Be back in a second.”  
The movement just across the room is much louder than expected. Mulder’s there, opening your suitcase, inspecting your immaculate packing, sifting through the camisoles and underwear to find your pajama set.  
“Uh, Scully? Both of these are going to hold in a lot of heat. Don’t we want you to stay as cool as you can stand?”  
Dammit. He’s right. The look you give him must be pretty pitiful; his gaze entirely too apologetic.  
“I’m so sorry. I just don’t want your fever to get out of control. So. Uhm. The ol’ boxers and Knicks routine. Yeah?”  
He always packs an extra set of his famous night ware collection just for you. The thought is unsettling in its pure generosity. Mulder knows the extent to which you go to keep your clothes as nice as they possibly can be. Plus, your luggage has been delayed more than once; his Knicks tee and boxer shorts your only refuge from sleeping in your suit.  
“Mmhm.”  
Perfect. Wearing his clothes is a sacred act. And now you don’t even get to enjoy it. In fact, as darkness slowly bleeds into your vision, the realization that unconsciousness is swiftly approaching dawns on you. After the oversized shirt engulfs you, he kneels to pull the boxers up behind your thighs. The starched shoulder within perfect reach seems to be calling out to you. Looks so nice. So comfy. Wonderful.  
“Woah, there. If you wanted a hug, you could’ve just asked,” the vibration of his voice traveling directly to your forehead amplifies the ache in your sinus.  
“Scully? You still with me?”  
“Mmph.” It’s small. A whimper blended with a feeble attempt at speech.  
“A lot of pain?”  
“Mmhm.”  
Broad hands sweep up and down your arms and back, kneading and scratching lightly.  
“Alright, let’s get you to bed. Okay?” Mulder’s whispered voice is pressed into your temple; his lips lingering entirely too long.  
The violent change in position, even though he is doing his best to be gentle, causes discomfort. Boxers are pulled on and you are being guided around the edge of the bed. With one more unsteady roll of your gut, you are placed with care under a sheet and comforter.  
Sitting up to tuck you in the rest of the way, Mulder’s eyes skim over you, examining his work. Shimmering hazel eyes meet yours; a sad smile ghosting over the accompanying, and equally handsome, lips.  
“I’m so sorry I dragged you out here. I wondered if something was up with you this morning. I should have asked.”  
“Mm, no. ‘M an ad—cough—ad’lt. C’n m’ke m’own d-decd-d—,” he saves you from yourself, silencing your noble speech with a finger over your mouth.  
“I know, Scully. No one is doubting your intellect here. I just need to pull my head out of my ass once in awhile.” He’s been stroking your cheek with nervous energy; taking your mind off the fire in your throat for a few moments.  
“Try and sleep? I’m going to call Kersh and ‘keep him apprised’.” A peck on the forehead, a satisfied nod, and the lights are suddenly off. You’re not aware of much more after that.  
—————————  
Lights flashing across the ugly popcorn ceiling take up your hazy line of sight. The rattle of the heating unit on the wall and a substantial snore compel you to investigate further.  
You are sore. So incredibly sore. Why? Sweet Jesus. The flu. Ugh.  
The need for the bathroom is pressing. Yet, something, besides the pain and stiffness in your joints, is trapping your legs. More snores. Snores emanating from a source very near.  
Not even daring to speak, you force movement upon your neck. Stifling the urge to moan in pain, you finally start to focus on the end of the bed.  
Bathed in hues of infomercial blues, reds, and greens; Fox Mulder sleeps peacefully. Peaceful for him and no one else.  
One arm tucked under his head, the other resting over your shins, he soldiers on. Sucking the drapes right off the windows.  
It’s endearing, really. The angelic glow cast over his relaxed features. Any other night you’d—well. You’d probably kick his ass out of bed and demand he explain just why in the hell he decided it was okay to be so damned adorable.  
For now, you’d settle for making it through the freezing air without dying of exposure and return to the beautiful relief of this grungy comforter.  
In an attempt to clear your throat, a sizable collection of phlegm dislodges itself from your soft palate.  
Gasping, choking, hacking, gagging; you name it, it’s all happening right now.  
The lights are on, Mulder is propping you up, and producing a waste basket just as if the cosmos aligned that moment precisely.  
The mucus expelled, along with a little more than bargained for, you slump against the support of the arm around your middle.  
“Oh, Scully. Can you breathe?” Trash can abandoned, he’s wiping your face with a cool cloth.  
Surprisingly, your throat feels somewhat better. Somewhat.  
“S’rry, Ml’ner,” is all you can manage to croak.  
“Don’t worry about it. How do you feel? Any more...?”  
“Nobe. Cold. Need t’pee.”  
He chuckles, pressing the back of his hand to your forehead.  
“Afraid the fever is coming back around, Scully. Bathroom then more meds?”  
“Yeb.”  
“Blankets coming off now, ready?”  
“Yeb.”  
The blast of, what is arguably, the coldest air you’ve ever been exposed to nearly saps all of the energy you have left.  
“S’okay. I’ve got you. C’mon, G-Woman.”  
One oddly amusing shuffle to the Arctic chill of the tile floor and the pressure on your bladder has greatly increased. Ever the gentleman, Mulder’s left you a bit of privacy; there’s just one problem: You’re quaking from head to toe.  
Fumbling fingers attempt to lift the lid and push down the boxers and underwear. Nothing doing.  
“Mul’nerrr?” The hopelessness of it all bleeds into your voice.  
“What’s up, Scully?”  
“Deed help.”  
He pokes his head in and you will your knees to stop knocking together.  
“Here. Just let me, erm, I’ll help you and let you do your thing,” the clatter of the toilet lid startles you and he mumbles an apology.  
Both of you keep your eyes averted as he eases your underwear and the boxers down your legs. Bracing you under your arms, Mulder sits you down slowly. Your teeth begin to chatter.  
“There. You...’go’ and I’ll get the pills ready. Same meds, same dose?”  
Nodding, you implore him to leave; there’s no holding it anymore. And there is also no way you will ever urinate in front of Fox Mulder.  
The relief is short lived. There is no part of you that isn’t shaking. You struggle greatly, clinging to the ice cold counter top.  
“Alright, Doc. How’s it going?”  
“Mm. Dot great,” dizzy and the most pathetic you’ve felt in some time; the floor seems to be cresting and falling like the tides.  
“Jesus. Take these and I’ll get you right back in that cozy bed.” Mulder straightens the shirt; settling the waistbands of the undergarments higher on your hips.  
Pills down. Back to bed. Sleep and never wake up. All higher brain function is lost to baser needs at this moment in time.  
After settling you between the covers, he disappears for a few moments, only to return with a cup and your toothbrush.  
“Bedside service at its finest, eh? Figured you could brush a’la Mulder tonight.” The beauty of it is, he needn’t explain the procedure to you. It’s something you’ve observed him doing for six years now.  
The both of you grin when you spit into the cup.  
“Thn’ks. Glad you didn’t ‘bake me drink it with ‘by coffee,” he laughs outright.  
“Of course not. You’re much too elegant for that routine.”  
“Don’t feel ‘elegant’.” You concentrate on pulling the blankets up to your chin, but not before a palm is pressed to your cheek.  
“You are beautiful, intelligent, hilarious, nurturing, kick ass, and elegant. Always,” he clears his throat, “Okay then. Just thought I’d throw that out there.”  
As Mulder leaves the bed, so do his companions: body heat and emotional comfort. This flu is really hitting you hard. Maybe it’s the meds? Making him impossibly irresistible. Or has it always been this way and your vulnerable state is opening the door of opportunity?  
“I’m going to head to bed, you get some rest. G’night, Scully. Wake me if you need anything. At all.” A squeeze of your hand coupled with a kiss to the cheek. Stinging tears add to the inferno that is the backs of your eyes.  
By the time the door to the bathroom closes, your meds have started to tug you toward unconsciousness. You do your best to fight the losing battle, just in time for him to notice you’re still awake.  
“Hey, what’s up,” now that he is donned in the proper nighttime attire, your need for him only increases.  
“W’ll y’stay w’th be?”  
“Of course, Scully. I’ll be right here the whole night.”  
You pray to God that your continued silence helps him find your meaning.  
“Wait. You want me in the bed?”  
He’s going to make you say it. Probably so he can confirm that you are, indeed, inviting him into your personal space.  
Funny. He’s been invading your personal space since you’ve met. Only now, does he show any sign of hesitation.  
“Mmhm.”  
You think he may be on the verge of declining. But if only for a moment.  
“Sure. Okay. Uh, yeah. Of course.”  
He’s nervous. It’s the cutest thing. Flabbergasted Mulder doesn’t happen too often.  
You track him as he moves; around the bed, grabbing his glasses and some case files, taking a sip of water before finally settling in beside you.  
Back propped against the headboard, he starts to open the ugly folders.  
“M’drr.”  
“Yeah?”  
You blindly push at the paper in his hand and grasp at, what you assume, is his forearm.  
“Scully, I’m not tired anymore. Unfortunately, my Sandman isn’t armed with the magic of Big Pharma.”  
His Sandman has been on strike for the past 10 years. When he’s with you, somehow, he sleeps. Perhaps, this arrangement will benefit the both of you. You don’t relent on your hold, pulling him with all your weakened might.  
“Okay. Okay, I’ll—Scully, you can release the death grip now.”  
His long warm body slides down the bed and the sensation draws you to him instantly. You feel as if you’re basking in the sun.  
“Oh, I see. You’re just using me for my body. Maggie Scully would not approve.” In all honesty, at this point Maggie Scully would not be the least bit surprised.  
“Shh. S’warm. Sleep.”  
“I’m warning you, if you hog all of the covers, I won’t be responsible for my actions.” You can hear the cheeky grin in his voice.  
“Mm. Sleep.”  
Not unlike a large dog, he continues to shuffle behind you until he’s just right. Nose tucked in the crook of your neck, arm draped over your middle, and the support of his thighs pressed to the back of yours.  
If it weren’t for the aches and phlegm, this would be the most comfortable you’ve been in your natural born life.  
“Night Scully.” He sounds drowsy already.  
You pat his hand that rests over your belly and drift into a mostly peaceful sleep.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are definitely welcome! Thanks! Hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
